Obliviate, Protego
by Shnazy
Summary: Scabior comes across Hermione in the woods and gives chase. Despite her quick thinking with an Obliviate, he's faster. You know what they say about Protego, "...bounces off me and sticks to you."


Fear.

Pure, unadulterated fear.

It's coursing through her blood, pumping through her body, and giving her the adrenaline to keep going.

Despite the speed she's running, the wind is blowing harder from the side and pushing her curls roughly into her face. Her wild unkempt hair is scratching at her nose and mouth and she can't stop her natural inclination to try and brush the tendrils out of her eyes with her hand. But moving her hand to her face while running is causing her to lose her footing slightly on the uneven ground.

Somewhere behind her a branch snaps despite the unmistakable damp from a morning rain. She knows he's gaining on her. There's no way he can't be. He's faster. This is his job. And she's been living in a tent being underfed for months.

Her foot hits a wet clump of dead leaves and she loses her traction. She feels her brown Doc Martin boots slide out from beneath her but doesn't have time to do anything about it.

She lands almost in a perfect right split. She only knows the term from the three months of gymnastics that her mother forced on her in primary. She'd been able to get out once her mother realized how much the other girls picked on her.

Her Mother, she makes a choked sound at that; though whether it's from her Mother being gone or from the pain shooting up her leg from where the left shin landed on a stick she isn't sure.

Either way she doesn't have time to think more on it.

She struggles to stand despite the soggy leaves and starts running again, but with a bit less ambition than before. She's lost some of energy from the fall.

His footsteps are louder than ever.

He's going to catch her. There isn't a doubt in her mind now.

Will he kill her outright? Take her to the Ministry? Voldemort? Try and have her give up the boys? Never! No matter what happens she'll never give up information. They may as well just kill her.

She has a stitch in her side though she doesn't dare move her arm to hold it; show weakness to the man chasing her, let him see that she's growing tired.

So she fights through the pain.

That is until a spell hits her in the back and she tenses into a seize before she crumples to the ground in a heap.

It takes some effort, but she's finally able to turn over and face him. His hair is matted and dreadlocked, with one lock streaked in red. He's wearing a dark leather trench, probably to protect him from the rain. On his arm in a red strip of cloth to identify him as a snatcher but she can't help but think of him as something reminiscent of Gestapo.

" 'ello there my lovely," he says, smiling in a way that she immediately finds leery, "You were a bit of a challenge ta' catch. Quite the runn'r."

"I didn't even realize you were there," she replies flatly raising one brow haughtily, "I was just out for my morning jog."

At that, his smile goes impossibly eerier and her eyes crinkle into a wince.

"Oh, you're a cheeky one, you are."

What was she doing? She knew that snatchers traveled with Werewolves. That when someone they were chasing was proving to be "uncooperative" they had the authority to either turn them or dispose of them. Why was she escalating things?

But where was his back-up? Shouldn't they be here by now? Was he on his own? And if so, would she be able to just overpower him with her spellwork and be on her merry way?

"You seem to be thinkin' mighty hard there little love," the snatcher questioned curiously, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side, "What might that brilliant mind o' yours be thinkin'?"

"Where are your men?" she asked, unable to stop herself. Why would she ask that? Now he'd know what she was thinking.

"Probl'y drinkin' 'til they call it a night. Why, you thinkin' you be wantin' to make a deal?" Now he was grinning widely, the leer gone. What was he talking about, what deal? What would she have to be making a deal with in the first place? All she had were her clothes and her wand, all her valuables were back at the tent in her beaded bag. Not that she was planning to tell him that.

"What's your name, beau'iful?" the snatcher asked curiously.

She thought hard. She couldn't very well say her own name now could she. That would give away everything. "Penelope Clearwater, Half-blood."

"Didn't ask ye' your status," he sneered, an annoyed look now crossing his face. Shite, she's pissed him off.

Now what?

Back to the original plan. Overpower him and get back to the tent. So…overpower. Certainly not physically. He may not be overly muscular but he was certainly bigger than her. That left spells. He was a snatcher so he probably wasn't all that bright. Okay, that was rude; but he was dirty and running around in the woods. Smart wizards like Bill Weasley worked at Gringots and didn't need to do manual labor, therefore, she could probably overpower him magically.

Now, what spell?

If she wasn't careful, he'd hunt her down after she got away. He'd be angry that she escaped; that she'd bested him. She needed to do a spell that he wouldn't be able to follow.

Obliviate. That wasn't simple though. She began to work the parameters. He would need to forget her and any people associated with her.

That should work. It would include Harry and Ron, all the Order, her parents if he had been shown anything about them before she'd shipped them off. Now she had to mentally visualize each person she was forcing him to forget. It didn't take long, there weren't many in the Order left quite frankly.

Finally satisfied, she looked back to him; he was eyeing her curiously but saying nothing. Probably trying to figure out what she was going to do as she likely gave off the look of someone about to run.

Determined and knowing she had to do this fast, she whipped out her wand and shouted, "Obliviate."

The problem was that he was faster. He had pulled his wand before she had finished pulling hers and finished casting his own spell before she'd gotten her tongue around the sound for the 'V'.

"Protego!"

* * *

She burst up from where she was lying, breathing heavily. She blinked rapidly as she tried to determine where she was or what she had dreamed. She knew that she had dreamed that dream before but she could never remember it when she awoke and it was the same now. Even as her heartbeat was slowly going back to normal she was losing all memory of that dream. What was worse was that she knew it was important.

The body beside her stirred, awoken by her flailing and heavy breathing. He rubbed his eyes and sat up as well, turning to look over at the woman beside him who appeared so frightened and frustrated.

"The Dream?" he asked with a yawn.

"Yeah," she replied, whipping at her eyes where a few tears were leaking.

"Don' worry love, you're 'ere with me. Nothin' 'ill get you 'ere."

"I know," she replied, lying back amongst the animal furs on the tent floor, the wood stove giving off a faint heat from a few metres away, "I trust you with my life Scabior."

"Dat's right, Pen," Scabior replied, pulling her body in tight to his until she was spooned up against him, his half-hard erection pressed up against her arse, "You jus' get some sleep beau'iful. We got some snatchin' to do in the mornin'."


End file.
